


Hydrotherapy

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Humor, Love Potion/Spell, Magical Artifacts, Romance, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-01
Updated: 2008-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco finds a trip to the showers after playing Quidditch... enlightening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Trip to the Showers

**Author's Note:**

> Winner of the Pure Arrogance Prompt Challenge, May 2008.

Exhausted, Draco Malfoy wondered—not for the first time—precisely how many muscles there were in the human body and how every one of them could possibly ache so dreadfully all at the same time.

“Seventeen years old and I feel fucking ancient,” he grumbled, moving stiffly along the corridor to the showers following a hard-won victory in the day’s Quidditch match. Slowly rolling one shoulder, then the other, and then his head, in an attempt to ease the kinks out, he sighed deeply and then pushed open the door to the shower room to which the Slytherin team gratefully repaired after each match.

He could hear others who had arrived before him and were already standing under the showerheads, jets of steaming water soothing tired muscles, sweat and grime sloughing off them and eddying in small, soapy pools before disappearing down the drains.

He made his way to the nearest bench, sitting down heavily and beginning the process of stripping off his uniform. Wrist guards were flung to the floor, followed by gloves. With a grunt, he pulled his boots off, kicking them under the bench. And then he just sat for a while, luxuriating in not having to move at all, his shirt and trousers clinging to his sweaty skin.

It had been a rough match. He’d really had to work for the victory against Gryffindor. Potter hadn’t made it easy, but this time— _this_ time—Draco had prevailed. It had come at a cost, however.

He flexed his left shoulder once again and winced. He was convinced that he’d dislocated it in a crushing collision in the final seconds of the match that had swept both Seekers off their brooms, sending them plummeting to the rock-hard ground below. The impact had completely knocked the wind out of Draco, so that for several agonisingly long seconds, he feared that he was about to die, simply because he was unable to suck in a breath. He recalled hoping, as he’d struggled for air, that the fall had done at least as much damage to Potter.

Madam Pomfrey had been summoned immediately. She had hurried first to one and then the other, ministering efficiently to their medical needs with much clucking of the tongue and reproachful mutterings about the terrible dangers to mere _children_ of such an absurd sport. He’d been in such a haze of pain that he hadn’t paid much attention to any of that or to the healing spell she’d uttered whilst holding his shoulder in place. The only thing he knew for certain was that at last, the coveted Snitch was clutched tightly in his right fist, its wings fluttering madly. Such a prize was worth the pain.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there on the bench, the friendly, good-natured banter and horseplay of his teammates swirling around him as they finished their showers, towelled off and dressed. They left, finally, in small knots of twos and threes, hailing him as they passed, cuffing him genially, congratulating him on the win. Wearily, he raised an acknowledging hand and nodded, looking forward to the peace and solitude of an empty shower room.

With a grunt, he heaved himself up from the bench and pulled his remaining clothes off, dropping them unceremoniously on the floor and stepping under the nearest showerhead. Instantly, soothing, hot water jetted out in a pulsing stream, just the way he liked it. Letting out a deep sigh, he stood squarely beneath the powerful spray, the water plastering his hair down in a smooth, silver-blond cap around his head. He’d let it grow longer this year, enjoying the effect the new, softly shaggy, more rakish look seemed to have on the female population of the school. And in truth, he’d long since grown heartily sick of all that gel.

“That’s going to be a nasty bruise.”

The voice came from behind him. It was soft, the tone sympathetic, and most definitely female.

Draco froze, water and lather streaming down his body in frothy clumps.

“Who is it? Who’s there?” he hissed, intense embarrassment vying with self-righteous anger. How dare anyone invade his personal space and spy on him unawares, especially when he was in such a completely… _naked_ state?

“You don’t need to know that. I saw that terrible fall you took. I can help.”

The voice was nearly a whisper, but there was something disconcertingly familiar about it. Turning slowly, he was all prepared to confront this audacious intruder, only to discover to his surprise that he could see no one. An Invisibility Charm, then. And yet, he could feel her presence quite palpably. She stood close by, and there was a faint, fruity scent that invaded his nostrils and had him sniffing appreciatively, despite himself.

And then he shook himself, his voice gruff. “Get the hell out. You don’t belong here, whoever you are. What do you think you’re doing?” He pivoted abruptly, turning his back on her, all too aware of the self-conscious flush that was creeping over his body.

The water streamed down, its heat raising clouds of steam, and he wished that he could disappear into those clouds, wear them like a cloak. All at once, he felt absurdly vulnerable in a way he’d never experienced before and certainly never with a girl. Somehow, this was different. And he didn’t like it.

Maybe if he waited and ignored her long enough, she would give up and go away.

Several long moments passed, and then suddenly, he felt a pair of soft, cool hands on his shoulders. Unbelievably, she was standing right behind him now, directly beneath the stream of water. And those hands had begun moving in gentle, soothing circles, her fingers kneading the sore muscles and easing the knots that had tightened in his neck.

Automatically, he opened his mouth, prepared to dismiss her again, and then stopped. Only a complete arse would walk away from something that felt this good. He could feel the tension dissolving as his sore muscles warmed to her steady touch.

Her hands moved lower now, easing their way down, massaging the muscles that flanked his spine. Her fingers hovered just above the curve of his bum and he felt the skin there twitch with anticipation, a mass of gooseflesh under the streams of hot water.

Perhaps if he flexed those muscles too…

The rippling effect as his buttocks clenched must indeed have caught her eye, for a moment later, her hands moved to cup the taut, perfectly rounded globes, squeezing firmly much as one would raw bread dough. And then they slipped between the cheeks, her fingertips lightly grazing his balls on their way to his thighs.

He sucked in a sudden, ragged breath, going quite still as she nudged his thighs further apart. And then he seemed to stop breathing altogether as her hands moved on one thigh and then the other, pressing, kneading, working the muscles in the back and then the front, and always coming just shy of touching his scrotum. She was so close that the light breeze created by her moving hands fanned that most sensitive flesh. His balls had begun to tingle, his cock twitching in response. He could almost _feel_ her there, and now he wanted more. Bugger privacy and personal space and all that shit! He wanted…

By this time, though, her hands were encircling his knees and calf muscles, her thumbs and fingertips working them hard. He groaned as she hit a particularly painful spot on his right knee where a Bludger had done some glancing damage, and immediately she eased the pressure, moving around silently to kneel in front of him.

“Hold onto the bar and give me your foot,” the soft voice instructed. He moved as one mesmerised, raising his left foot and placing it in her cupped hand. She proceeded to caress each toe individually and then ran a thumb along his instep, massaging the arch and then the ball and heel of each foot. It was quite possibly the single most relaxing-- and erotic-- thing anyone had ever done for him, and he felt himself melting, becoming nearly boneless under her touch.

Her hands were now moving up his legs to his thighs once again, coming perilously close to his penis, now almost painfully aroused and jutting out from his body in a stiff salute.

Involuntarily, he put out his hands and reached for her, groping as if blind and finding only empty air. Fuck it, who _was_ she and what was she playing at?

“Where are you?” he growled, unable to contain himself. “Come back!”

There was a soft chuckle, low and thrilling.

“I’m still here,” she said. “Shall I continue?”

He found himself nodding with embarrassing eagerness, a flush creeping up the back of his neck colouring his cheeks. He could _sense_ her smile, and a small part of him felt a surge of annoyance at the sheer effrontery of what she was doing. But in truth, he didn’t give a shit about that anymore. It was those marvellous hands he craved. They were like disembodied entities that had been created with an awareness of exactly how _he_ liked to be touched. And… and there was more. He wanted to _see_ her. _Touch_ her.

Almost as if she had divined his thoughts, she stepped closer, her body a scant inch from his.

He swallowed hard, his voice suddenly husky. “Are you… are you naked?”

“Yes.”

She was so close, now, that his penis bobbed against silken flesh. He shivered at the contact, goose bumps erupting on every square inch of his skin. She was soft and she smelled wonderful and this was an exquisite torture he didn’t think he could stand very much longer.

She had laid her palms flat on his chest, and now she moved them in small, tantalising circles until they skated lightly over his nipples.

Tentatively, he reached out and down, picturing where her waist would likely be, and laid his hands there. At last! Her skin was petal-soft and firm to the touch. She was a little thing, he could tell. He moved his hands in a gingerly fashion from her waist to the small of her back, and there he let them rest, holding her close as she continued to caress his upper body.

“Why are you doing this? I dont even know who you are,” he murmured.

“Well, you know what they say.” She gave a light laugh. “To the victor go the spoils.”

“I think it’s more than that,” Draco insisted. “Why _me?_ ”

“You needed this,” she said simply. “And I wanted it. I’ve… wanted it for a long time.”

The shy type, then, needing the cover of anonymity. Clearly, she fancied him, though. Intriguing.

“Please let me see you,” he begged, drawing her nearer still, so that their bodies pressed firmly against each other. She was warm and fit so snugly against him.

“Let your hands be your eyes,” she replied, her voice low and sultry.

The frisson of excitement that began in the pit of his stomach at her words left a tingling trail in its wake as it spread. With hands that shook slightly, he began to explore, sliding his palms from her lower back up to the base of her neck and into her hair.

Damp now from the spray of the shower, it hung in a softly curling mass to just below her shoulders. He wove his fingers through it, moving closer so he could breathe in its fragrance. Apricots. It had been her hair that he’d smelled before.

“Nice,” he murmured, and took another whiff before bringing his questing fingertips to her face. Carefully, he explored, letting his fingertips light on its planes, tracing her eyes, nose, and mouth. Small, oval face, delicate cheekbones and chin. Full, smooth lips, and a small, straight nose. And long, curling eyelashes. He could feel them fluttering against his fingers like tiny butterfly wings.

In his wildest fantasies, Draco had never imagined anything as intensely erotic as the reality of what he found himself doing now. To see and yet be as one blind whilst mapping the terrain of a lovely girl’s body was making him breathless with desire, nearly dizzy with it.

She was whimpering now, each soft moan sending an electric tremor through him. Lightly, he drew his hands from her face down the soft line of her throat and then over her breasts with such delicacy that his fingers seemed almost to float above them, making the barest possible contact before he settled a palm on each one at last.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and he smiled.

She had spectacular tits. There was no question about it. They were firm, high, and full, with nipples he was discovering were wonderfully sensitive to the touch. Smoothing the pads of his thumbs over each one, he smiled again, delighted. Beautiful. He knew it.

Emboldened now, one hand travelled lower still, slipping between her thighs and finding neat, soft curls and moist heat awaiting him. She parted her legs to allow him in, and with growing excitement, he began caressing her there, dipping a finger into her slick heat and then stroking her clit, while with his other hand, he teased her breasts. And then he bent his head, giving one nipple a long, leisurely lick. Her ragged moan inflamed him, and he redoubled his attentions, kissing and licking and suckling the tender flesh.

“Please…tell me who you are,” he breathed, as she pressed herself urgently against his hand. Even as he asked, he hoped she wouldn’t reveal herself—not yet, anyway. There was something deliciously decadent in the mystery, and he found himself more powerfully aroused than he had ever been in his life.

She was beyond speech at that moment. Her sudden climax erupted around his fingers for long moments before she gave a final, shuddering sigh.

Then, instead of answering, she reached for him, her fingers closing around his cock. After several leisurely strokes, she drew it between her legs, teasing her swollen clit with its weeping head.

“Take me, Draco,” she said softly. “ _Now._ ”

After that, everything happened with breathtaking speed. Lifting her so that she could twine her arms and legs around him, he backed her up against the wall, bracing himself with both hands as he penetrated her, and then he began a deep, rhythmic thrusting.

With each one, their shared moans echoed from the walls and the high ceiling of the shower room. Faster and faster he drove into her, rocking his hips as skin slapped against skin. She fell into the rhythm he set and moved with him, pulling him in ever more deeply as her own arousal grew again, her thighs trembling uncontrollably as they pressed against him. At last, what had begun as a small, hot spark coiling deep in his balls exploded violently, leaving them both limp and shaking as slowly, they slid down the wall to the floor.

And then he felt her hands cupping his face, and her mouth, warm and tender, on his.

The sweetness of her kiss lingered long after she had slipped away, as quietly and as invisibly as she had come. He stood there for long moments after, still naked and beginning to shiver now, fingertips absently grazing his lips and a thoughtful, faraway look in his eyes.

 

*

 

Of course the silly cow would have to be his assigned partner. Draco suppressed a groan. Snape had a sadistic streak, he was certain of it.

“Each one of you will take it in turn to test your skill at identifying the various ingredients used in one of two potions. You will close your eyes and allow your other senses to do the work. Your partner will keep a list of the ingredients you identify correctly.” Professor Snape paused, his gaze slowly raking over the class. “There is to be no cheating. Do I make myself quite clear?”

A flurry of nods was the collective response, and he stood back, watching as the class got busy with its assigned task.

Draco sighed. This was bound to be tedious. Somehow, Granger would know every ingredient even before she examined it. Maybe he could talk her into tasting a few of them, see if a tongue swollen and stuck to the roof of her mouth would knock her down a peg or two, shut that annoying mouth of hers for once.

Meanwhile, Hermione had assembled all the ingredients, covering them with a piece of parchment. “You go first. Ready?”

Draco shrugged, closing his eyes, as she pushed a small tray towards him.

“Right. Use one of your other senses. Not taste!” she giggled, snatching the sample of armadillo bile away as he began to lower his face to the dish.

“Fuck, Granger,” he hissed, exasperated and more than a little irritated by her teasing laughter at his expense. “I had no intention of _eating_ it! Save your warnings for your gormless little pal, Weasel. Let’s just get this over with!” She moved the sample tray back again, and he gave a sniff, shaking his head. _Bloody stupid waste of time_. “No clue. Next?”

Sighing, she rotated the tray, and again, he bent over it, sniffing. “Um…ginger root?”

“Yes, that’s it!”

He could hear her quill scratching purposefully against the parchment as she recorded his answer.

“One more,” she said. “Here.”

Again, the dish was pushed in front of him. He sniffed. Odd. Generally, potions ingredients had an identifying odour of some sort. “By any chance, _is_ this one edible, whatever it is?”

“You won’t want to, not in this form,” Hermione replied, and he could hear amusement in her voice again.

 _Hah_ , he thought. _Just you wait for **your** turn. We’ll see who’s laughing then_.

Touch, then. “Okay,” he said at last.

It seemed she had read his thoughts. “Let your hands be your eyes,” she suggested quietly. He didn’t notice the brief but pointed look she gave him.

Cautiously, he lowered his fingertips to the plate in front of him, running them over the smooth, hard shells and small, antennae-spiked heads of—

“Scarab beetles! Right?” Draco opened his eyes, flashing a triumphant grin at Hermione. She nodded, smiling faintly, and recorded his correct answer on the list.

 

*

 

By the end of the period, most everyone in the class had managed to correctly identify at least one ingredient. As they packed up their supplies, Hermione’s overstuffed satchel fell to the floor, spilling books, parchments, and quills everywhere.

Well, this impromptu little floor show was amusing, at least. Draco lounged against their shared table, watching as she scrambled to retrieve everything.

“Fuck’s sake, Granger,” he snorted, rolling his eyes. “Do you drag _everything_ you own ‘round in that manky old bag of yours?”

She shot him a disgusted look and went back to scooping up her errant possessions. Finally, muttering to herself, she crawled under a chair in a vain attempt to reach a small bottle of ink that had rolled just out of reach.

Professor Snape glowered at them from the lectern. “Mister Malfoy, perhaps you might consider assisting your partner rather than commenting on her very obvious and regrettable pack-rat tendencies. I do have another class scheduled to arrive in exactly five minutes.”

With a martyred sigh, Draco complied, crouching down to help, Hermione’s head unavoidably close to his as together they worked to stuff all her belongings back into the bag. Suddenly, there it was…something that was ringing bells in his head, something he recognised but couldn’t quite put his finger on…

“Well, thanks, Malfoy,” she said finally, hoisting the bag over her shoulder and turning to go.

 _Apricots_.

And then something she’d said during class came back to him and he knew he’d heard those words before.

She was halfway to the door when his head shot up in shock.

“Granger! Wait!”

Almost tripping over himself in his haste, he hurried up to her, and for a couple of long moments, he simply stared. Finally, he leaned in and sniffed at her hair, one hand rising tentatively as if to touch her face and then dropping back to his side.

“Whatever are you doing, Malfoy!” she exclaimed, but she really didn’t seem all that annoyed.

“It was _you_ …” he murmured, still staring. “Wasn’t it!”

She lowered her eyes briefly, a hint of colour pinking her cheeks, and then she met his gaze with a tiny, enigmatic smile before slipping out of the classroom.

Granger. _Holy shit_ …

And then, slowly, Draco began to grin, and that grin spread so wide that it threatened to split his face. Slytherin was up against Ravenclaw in Saturday’s match. He would almost certainly be bruised and sore and in need of a long, therapeutic shower. Suddenly, that prospect—and more besides, if he had his way-- were fraught with delicious possibilities. But this time, they would be on his terms. He would see to that.

 _Granger_ , for fuck’s sake...

Stunned, he shook his head, a small, bemused smile playing about his lips.

Granger.

 

 

TBC


	2. The Aftermath

Timing.

It was everything. There wasn’t a single significant incident in his years at Hogwarts that hadn’t been shaped in some way by it, not any that he’d initiated at least, and Draco knew this would be no different.

As he stood under the jets of hot water, its pulsing streams delivering a delicious massage to his neck and shoulder blades, he considered the situation. It was simple. Elementary, really. It all boiled down to the fact that he had been most delightfully seduced into the best sex of his young life just over a week earlier, and his seducer had been somebody completely unexpected.

Draco stopped soaping his chest, his hand lingering in a cloud of lather over his sternum, and a wolfish grin stole irrepressibly over his face as he remembered what had taken place in this very spot. Unexpected, hell! He shook his head in wonderment. A bloody knee to the balls was what the revelation had been. Metaphorically speaking, of course. And now…now the challenge confronting him was how to devise a rematch between him and the very unexpected Hermione Granger in such a way that he would not only equal her visit to the Slytherin locker room but surpass it.

Oh, he wanted her and no mistake. So badly, in fact, that he could taste it. Every time the merest fragment of memory came back to him—the sensuous feel of her hands on his body, her mouth so warm and moist and tender as finally, _finally_ , she’d caught his lips in a soft, lingering kiss—he found himself overwhelmed, a rush of heated desire catching him in its thrall. Thoughts of her disturbed his sleep, distracted him suddenly in the middle of a class, and clouded his brain as he went about the corridors surrounded by a clamouring crowd of fellow students. He wanted to feel that mouth on every part of his skin. It fairly tingled as he anticipated the prospect.

But he would not give in to his desires. Not right away, at least, and not without careful thought and planning. Because it would not be enough merely to have her again. He needed her to crave him, to have him in her blood afterwards, as much as she was now so sweetly sullying his.

But how to do it…

As he considered, the hand that had been lathering his chest now meandered down to his belly and circled his navel before moving decisively south. It always ended this way whenever _she_ was in his head.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, giving himself over to the memories of her touch as his hand moved up and down, squeezing and pulling at himself desperately. Because of course, he hadn’t actually _seen_ her. Imagined pictures of a very naked Granger flooded his mind, driving him on until he climaxed violently in his hand, the spray of cum coating the tiled wall in front of him.

Next time. Next time he would learn every inch of her, none of his senses denied.

 

*

 

And so he watched. Watched and listened, all the while maintaining a cool reserve whenever he was around her. In Potions, where they were partnered, he began a campaign of small touches, just enough to let her know he hadn’t forgotten—but no more than that. A casual brush of the hand as he reached for a vial of belladonna essence, his foot grazing hers as they worked quietly together, his thigh momentarily pressed against hers (oh, how he imagined it, all warm and silken beneath those damnable robes that hid far too much!) before he moved away again. The rosy flush that invariably burned high on her cheeks was impossible to miss, but he would bite his lip and turn away, stifling a smirk as he busied himself with their class work.

He was certain that some telltale avenue would turn up eventually, something he could use, and as he waited, patient, alert to any telling detail he might observe or overhear, he kept up the campaign. Much to his disappointment, she hadn’t shown up in the Slytherin showers after that next match with Ravenclaw. But perhaps that had been too much to hope for. She’d probably gone all shy after he’d worked out her identity. Nevertheless, he knew she still desired him. Doggedly, he continued to fan the flame.

Finally, the opening he had been hoping for materialised.

 

*

 

“Sorry, you lot, I’ve got the worst headache, I’m afraid.” Hermione sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “We can work on the project tomorrow, though, promise! Think I’ll go lie down for a bit.”

She, Parvati and Lavender were making their way out of the Great Hall after dinner in the larger press of students exiting at the same time. One pair of ears not far behind them perked up and there was a momentary flash of teeth in a secretive smile.

“Okay, Hermione,” Lavender replied. “We’ll be in the library if you change your mind. Hope you feel better.”

A hand slid stealthily down into the deep pockets of his robe, patting a gossamer piece of cloth that was folded carefully inside, and that same rather smug grin reappeared. Slipping behind a stone statue, Draco pulled the Invisibility Cloak he’d filched from his father over his head and waited. Now it was just a matter of finessing the timing and staying as quiet as he possibly could. Piece of cake.

As luck would have it, a clutch of other Gryffindors arrived at the portrait hole at the same time Hermione did. For a moment, Draco frowned, watching his opportunity to slip inside the tower unheeded disappearing before his eyes. Somebody would be bound to detect him if he had to go through with a group, surely.

And then… the gods chose to favour him with a conspiratorial smile.

Just in front of him, Hermione paused suddenly, looking about with a quizzical expression on her face. Heedless, the other Gryffindors went ahead through the portrait hole, leaving her to puzzle out whatever was bothering her. She cocked her head, seeming to listen hard for something, even thrusting her hand out in front of her into the empty air. Nimbly, Draco stepped back, making no sound. Her fingers had very nearly grazed the silken fabric rendering him invisible. But then she chuckled, shaking her head at her own apparent folly.

Draco nearly laughed, too, in sweet anticipation, and stepped through the portrait hole a hairsbreadth behind her.

 

*

 

Ah, _bed_ , Hermione thought gratefully, as she hung up her robes and sank down into the fluffy duvet and pillows. Her head was pounding. She hadn’t had such a relentless headache since the time she’d awakened with a horrific hangover following Gryffindor’s Halloween party several months earlier. Her own fault, of course, for foolishly agreeing to share an illicit bottle of firewhisky with her friends.

Several moments passed, during which the only sound was her alarm clock ticking loudly on the bedside table. Eyes closed, she pressed her fingertips to her temples in an effort to ease the terrible throbbing. Consequently, she didn’t notice as a portion of the bed hangings she’d drawn shut was very gradually moved to one side, or that the corner of the mattress behind her pillows dipped just a bit under some cautiously added new weight.

And then suddenly, cool fingertips brushed hers away and began exerting gentle, circular pressure at each temple.

“Don’t be afraid,” a soft voice soothed. “I’m just returning the favour… Hermione.”

 _Malfoy?_

Her eyes flew open and she started, her first instinct to pull herself away from his hands. How did… he couldn’t… he must have…

Then a whisper of a smile ghosted briefly across her face as she considered the delightful symmetry of this quid pro quo, and she closed her eyes once again.

 _Brilliant_.

“My head hurts,” she murmured brokenly, making sure to keep her eyes shut.

“Let me kiss it better,” he whispered, drawing her back so that she reclined against his chest, and then the very lips that had captivated her for months were pressed against her right temple. Deliciously warm and yielding, they were just as she remembered them from the one real kiss they’d shared ten days earlier.

“Oh yes, please…” she sighed.

His muttered “ _Silencio!_ ” and the sound of a quiet click brought a quick peek from beneath her lashes, reassuring her that Draco had already secured both the door and the curtains around her four-poster as well. And it was early, in any case. Doubtful that anybody would be coming back to the room for several hours yet. Drawing in and releasing a single, shuddering breath, she felt her muscles start to uncoil as his arms wound themselves around her and he began to trail tiny kisses from her forehead to her chin.

For his part, Draco felt as if he were discovering new continents for the first time. At last, he would see what his hands had already discerned. It was just Granger, the girl he’d watched, sneered at, made the butt of his jokes and laughed at for the past five and a half years. Same small face with the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Same large, candid brown eyes. Same generous mouth that could close in a stubborn line or lift with laughter at a joke. Same profusion of unruly curls, though he’d never imagined her hair could feel like _this_. The delicate apricot scent enticed him closer and he lifted a silken handful to his face for a sniff before finding his way into its depths, fingertips absently massaging her scalp.

It was just Granger, and yet…it wasn’t. Not anymore. Not since she’d forced him to see her, _know her_ , in a whole other way.

Lifting his lips from her cheek, he looked down over her shoulder to the plain, white Oxford and maroon and gold-striped house tie, under which two nicely rounded swells rose and fell with her quickening breaths. He _knew_ them—had already touched them intimately, tasted them—but like the rest of her, they remained curiously uncharted territory, the memory of their topography yet to be aligned with visual imprints. He made quick work of her tie, tossing it heedlessly to the floor, his hands hovering now over the row of buttons.

“Hermione…” he breathed. And then, even more strangely, he heard himself asking, “May I?”

The same dizzying excitement that had overtaken him a week before, when she had surprised him in the showers, was back, and once again, it had shattered his smooth, cocksure arrogance into a million pieces. What was the matter with him, anyway? Just now, quite frankly, he didn’t give a toss.

A slight movement of her head against his chest signalled her acquiescence and he set about unfastening the buttons, moving down the row as quickly as he could in his eagerness.

Carefully, he parted the two halves of her blouse, running his fingertips lightly down her chest and over her flat stomach. Her skin felt so smooth, just as he remembered it, but now he could see the tiny constellations of pale freckles that dotted the valley between her breasts, and the cream-gold of her skin in the flickering light thrown by the hearth fire.

Thank Merlin, her bra had a front clasp. He had it open in a flash, the cups joining the discarded halves of her blouse. And her tits— _holy fuck_ , they were every bit as brilliant as he’d imagined they would be in the many fevered dreams that had consumed him, waking and sleeping, in the past week and a half. Rounded and firm, not huge but still generously proportioned, they were crowned with a pair of rosy peaks already stiff with arousal. Momentary astonishment gave way almost immediately to desire, and he bent to kiss the soft skin beneath her ear as one hand trailed delicately down her throat and over her collarbone to fondle a breast.

A small, sharp intake of breath told him she liked what he had begun, and so he stepped up his attentions, first to one breast and then to its twin, tickling and stroking her nipples, rolling them under the flats of his palms, squeezing and cupping the perfect globes.

“Draco…” His name slipped out of her in a soft, breathy sigh. This flesh-and-blood reality was proving so much better than any of her fantasies, and she wriggled against him, arching her back and rubbing her breasts up against his palms as the tingling between her legs intensified.

At that, a bit of his customary self-assurance returned. He grinned smugly against the crook of her neck, where he’d been busy soothing a rather spectacular love bite he’d just left there with small kisses and flicks of his tongue. He had her just where he wanted her. Time to move things forward a bit.

“Too many clothes, I think,” he murmured, releasing her breasts to find the zip on her skirt. Her hands closed over his and gently, she pushed him away.

“Let me,” she said softly, and quickly had the zip undone. Then she twisted halfway around and their eyes met for the first time.

In that moment, all bets were off. Because there was no denying what they had begun, what they were about to do—and entirely of their own free will this time. No longer was there any subterfuge or trickery. They gazed at each other, each seeing in the other’s eyes a mirror image of what was in their own: amazement that this was actually happening, uncertainty and a little bit of fear, and finally, unalloyed desire. In that last, breathless moment as they stared at each other, a tacit choice was made by both. She had begun it, but he’d been powerfully caught up, and now there was no turning back for either.

Her eyes were already sliding shut as he grabbed her, pressing his mouth to hers in a hard, desperate kiss. It was awkward and sloppy, but they neither noticed nor cared. She grasped his face with both hands, hungering for more, wanting to swallow him whole. In turn, the feel of her hands on his cheeks, the urgency of her response, electrified him, and he held her tightly, one hand clutching at her hair and the other pressed against her back.

Breaking apart finally to gulp some much-needed air, they gazed wildly at each other again, and then it was hands flying everywhere, clothing yanked off and tossed haphazardly from the bed, and finally, the heat of skin on skin as their bodies moved together, limbs entangled.

It was not slow this time, nor was it gentle. This was about hunger and satiation, about sudden, all-consuming desire and the overpowering need to quench it.

If Draco had stopped to think for a moment, he might well have recoiled at such a complete loss of control. Such a thing had never been his way. Yet once again, he had relinquished it and in a second liaison with _her_ of all people, a single thought running like a continuous tape loop through his brain instead: _HermioneHermioneHermione_. She was like a feast before him, his eyes greedily devouring her as his hands and mouth traced the curves and hollows of her body. Finesse was forgotten. She was _his_ , and he _would_ have her.

There was something almost a little frightening in his wildness, but it was electrifying too, liberating even. Hermione embraced it, giving herself over to his ardent caresses and returning them with equal fervour. Such unrestrained passion was something she’d hoped for, dreamt about, and had had a first taste of when they’d made love in the showers. But that had been nothing compared to this.

Finally, Draco fell back, half-reclining, against the headboard of her bed, pulling her onto him so that their groins were pressed together. Both were breathing hard, their skin flushed and damp, his erection hard and huge against her lower belly and the damp curls of her mons. Pressing her thighs to his hips, she wriggled closer still.

There was a moment of intense stillness as each regarded the other, the frantic urgency seeming to abate like smoke dissipating from the air after a fire. Shyly, Hermione ran a hand through his hair, pushing the sweat-darkened strands off his face. Curiously touched by the sweetness of this small gesture, Draco reached for her, his hand gently insistent at the back of her neck as he drew her face to his.

And then, just before their mouths met, time seemed to stop completely. She could feel his breaths, warm and shallow, against her lips. He smiled faintly, looking at her through eyes that were heavily lidded now, somnolent.

And then he kissed her.

The hunger was still there, but now it was both fuelled and tempered by tenderness as he explored her mouth and she his, in slow, sweet, drugging touches of lips and tongues and teeth. Their mouths were still joined when she felt his hands on her hips, lifting her and then pulling her down onto his cock, hard and deep.

The intensity of the sensation was almost overwhelming. Draco moaned, hugging Hermione to his chest. Through the haze of his own pleasure, he heard a wild keening that echoed his own. A long moment passed as both of them savoured the feeling of filling and being filled, of intense heat and utter completion, and then he began to move, rocking his pelvis against hers and wordlessly pulling her into the vortex of his rhythm. One hand gripped her bum and the other lost itself in her hair as he thrust up into her again and again and again…

 

*

 

Oh, now, this really was too much! Severus Snape considered himself a man of infinite patience, but Merlin’s teeth, he put up with more than his fair share of nonsense from addlebrained, ill-mannered, incompetent, abysmally unprepared, and worst of all, hormonally crazed students.

He glared at the pair occupying the third desk from the front. They were at it again, though no doubt they thought he hadn’t noticed.

“Snape!” Hermione hissed, nudging Draco with her foot. “He’s staring at us again. Do you think he sees?”

Draco looked straight ahead, carefully schooling his features into an expression of bland innocence. “What, you mean this?”

The hand that was already beneath her robes meandered up her thigh a bit further.

“ _Yes_ , I mean that, you wanker!”

A tiny giggle escaped her as his fingers began tickling the sensitive skin of her inner thigh perilously close to the crotch of her knickers. He was hoping she had on those virginal, little cotton ones he loved so much.

Grinning wickedly, he shrugged. “Not anymore. No need.”

The questing fingers moved up higher still, brazenly skimming the thin material covering her quim. Yep. The little cotton ones, and they were already quite damp.

Unable to help herself, Hermione sucked in a startled, shuddering breath.

That did it. Striding briskly, Professor Snape reached their desk in a matter of a moment.

“Miss Granger. Mister Malfoy. Need I remind you that today’s potion is being graded in approximately ten minutes? I see from the contents of your cauldron…” He paused, peering into the round, iron bowl, his brow furrowed. “…that you are nowhere. Near. Ready.” His tone turned silky, his smile dangerous. “Are we having difficulty concentrating today?”

Suddenly, it seemed that all the noise had been sucked out of the classroom and every eye had turned their way. Again. It was the fifth time in two weeks. Hermione flushed and ducked her head, chancing a quick look at Snape before staring down at her hands. Pressing her legs together, she prayed that her reaction to Draco’s wandering fingers couldn’t be detected, although it seemed to her that her arousal, like animal pheromones, had become positively _pungent_. She might as well be waving a red flag.

“Sorry, Professor,” she mumbled.

Apparently, Draco was unrepentant and completely free of annoying little emotions like embarrassment. He gave Snape a cheerfully beguiling grin. “Sorry, Professor, we’ll be done soon. No worries.” And then, to Hermione’s horror, he winked.

Apparently, such audacity was a surprise even to Snape, for he stiffened involuntarily and moved back a step. The boy was going too far, godson or no.

“Well… well, just you see that you are, _both_ of you,” he replied in a clipped tone, his righteous indignation almost completely recovered again. “I shall expect a complete accounting of all steps as well as a thorough analysis of your results.”

He turned, his robes flaring behind him, and began prowling the aisles, peering into other cauldrons.

“Oi!” Ron whispered to Harry over his shoulder. “What the fuck is going on between Hermione and Malfoy?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Sometimes Ron could be incredibly thick. “Not much, I reckon,” he replied, knowing that the irony of his answer would likely be lost on his friend. Still, it was probably better for everyone that way, not least Hermione. He’d never seen her so alive as in the past several weeks, so full of sparkle. He’d be the last one to spoil that for her, even if the reason were Malfoy.

“Yeah, ‘course. I knew that,” Ron said happily, reassured. “I mean, shit, what could _possibly_ be going on between Hermione and _Malfoy,_ of all people?”

Harry glanced past Ron at his friend sitting at the desk two rows up. Her long, curly hair obscured her face, but he spotted her hand doing a surreptitious slide down into Draco’s lap, disappearing finally inside his robes.

Oh, nothing, he thought, and he couldn’t help a wry grin.

Not a bloody thing.

 

 

Fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Only the original plot belongs to me. I make no money from this story.


End file.
